


Just A Taxi Ride Away

by my_dear_holmes



Series: My Sherlock one-shots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Harming John Watson, Suicidal John, Suicidal Thoughts, and i mean a lot of angst, basically just a few lines that hint at a romance, but there really isn't much of a relationship, i said sherlock/john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26644561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_dear_holmes/pseuds/my_dear_holmes
Summary: John isn't doing well after Sherlock's death. Not well at all.Beware of the tags! This fic is centred around mental health issues, specifically self harm and suicide. Big trigger warning
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: My Sherlock one-shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096340
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	Just A Taxi Ride Away

John tried to stay calm. He tried everything his therapist had suggested. He counted up, but accepted defeat by the time he got to thirty. He tried deep breathing, but just ended up panting and gasping in the hallway. He attempted his final technique, imagining something that made him happy or calm, but nothing came to mind. What was there to be happy about today? His hand found his left wrist and touched the skin there. The thin, straight cuts felt right under his fingers, though his stomach dropped as he remembered why they were there. He knew he shouldn't have given in to the temptation again, but everything was so overwhelming, so desperate, that he didn't know what else to do. Before he knew it, his blade was in his hand and his wrist was bleeding, the blood coating the old scabs and turning the dull brown a dark, deep red.

He told himself they didn't matter, that they didn't count. That they were barely paper cuts, only a smear of blood and a tiny sting. That's how they always started out. All he needed was a small spike of pain to focus his thoughts and numb the emotional pain he felt. But as he went on, the cuts got deeper and deeper, the blood flowing so fast that it turned the water of the shower a dark pink. He longed to feel the bite of the blade now, the metallic tang floating in the air, the skin parting under his touch, the slow drip of his blood from a new wound.

Those semi-healed cuts acted as a sort of comfort now. Feeling the rough scabs against the older, almost healed scars brought him back down to earth and to the cab waiting outside. All this over a cab journey. One stupid taxi. He reached for the door handle and, after an irritating creak, John stepped out into the gloomy, mid summer weather. The taxi was waiting a few doors down, since there were no spaces closer to his new, run down flat. It was near the outskirts of London. The neighbourhood wasn’t great and the flat was shabby, with truly awful neighbours. But he hated being so close to so many memories. He saw Sherlock everywhere. Running past their crime scenes, seated at the cafes they had eaten in, and of course, riding in the obligatory black cab.

The driver of the cab had his head buried in a newspaper, his face hidden by the thin pages. He was wearing a grey beanie, but didn’t look long enough to notice anything else. _Sherlock would be ashamed,_ he thought. He averted his eyes from the newspapers out of habit. The thought of those lying headlines made him wince. Although the media converge had mostly died down, there was still the odd article. At the start, he read them, but it just became too painful. Besides, they were all the same. Just calling Sherlock a liar, of a fraud, or a criminal. Eventually he decided the papers weren’t worth his anger.

John paused and placed his hand against the cold metal door. He didn't want to get in. Where he was going wasn’t even that important. He was only meeting up with Lestrade, and he could always cancel. He would understand, and say, _Alright mate, we’ll try another day. Call me if you need anything._ Yes, something like that. But it was like the back of the cab was calling him, as if there was something important he had lost that could be found inside, luring him to climb in and sit on the scuffed leather interior.

Before he could change his mind, he opened the door and climbed in.

The moment he pulled the back door closed, he felt confined and exposed all at once. He should have listened to Ella and gotten the tube (or even better, listened to his intuition and not gone at all). She said to take it slow, to ease himself back into things. But since when had John's life ever been slow? He had raced to join the army to escape his home life, only for that to be ended in a flash. Then he had gone straight from recovery to racing around solving crimes with-

The person that had gotten him into this mess. If Sherlock had stayed, everything would still be fine. They would still be annoying Mrs Hudson, helping Lestrade with his cases and calling Anderson an idiot. They would still be happy.

John would be at least. Maybe it was selfish to wish Sherlock back into the world when he had deliberately taken himself out of it. Had Sherlock had scars like the ones John wore? John thought back to the long sleeve shirts and thick coats, once again hated himself for not picking up on the signs. Sherlock had never eaten much, but perhaps that had been more than just disinterest. Had there been cuts? Had there been burns? For how long had Sherlock wanted to jump? 

Memories began crawling back into his mind. Sherlock listing off deductions when they had first visited 221B. John calling him extraordinary. Sherlock stealing an ashtray from Buckingham Palace and John laughing. Sitting too close together in the back seats or a taxi, knees brushing and thighs only a few inches apart. Hands both resting so their fingers just touched. Sherlock never reaching further, and John wishing he would.

He should have taken his chance. Instead, Sherlock was buried six feet under, and John was yearning for his own blood to be spilled. It was ironic, really, that the man that had saved John was the man who destroyed him.

_Selfish prick,_ said a small voice at the back of his mind, _your best friend killed himself and you can only think about yourself. You’re so weak, it’s pathetic._ He tried to shut the voice out, but it whispered insults over and over. _Pathetic. Weak. Selfish-_

A dull sting cut the voice off, and brought John’s attention back to the present. He had obviously been scratching at his scars, as several cuts had reopened. The blood soaked into his jumper as he pressed down on them, trying to stop the bleeding. Thank god he wore a dark colour, or the vibrant red would soak straight through. The muted pain felt nice, not as sudden as a cut, but still comforting, if less effective. Pain always managed to silence that demeaning voice.

  
John looked out the window. He was almost there now. God, how long had he been absorbed in his own angst? He felt like he was a teenager again. Back to cutting himself, absorbed in his own life, thinking that no one in the world could possibly understand him. Back to thinking, _I’d rather be dead than live like this._

The cab had stopped. Where was he going? Oh yes, he was going to Lestrade's house. He wanted to talk, check in on him at his new place, but John didn’t want anyone to see him in his new flat. It made everything worse somehow, to be miserable in a miserable environment. No, he would much rather go to Lestrade's flat. It was cosy, warm, fit for a family. How he missed that feeling of belonging.

John climbed out of the cab, reluctant to leave despite the distress the journey had caused him. That seemed to be a pattern of behaviour, loving what hurt him. He laid his hand on the black roof until the driver moved on, his palm sliding off and his arm hitting his side. He watched until the cab was a good distance away, consumed by the traffic, before turning to Greg’s front door.

The worst thing was, now he had to pretend to be okay. He had to show Greg that, _I’m coping fine. I’m still mourning, I’m still desperately sad, but I’ll cope. I’ll survive._ In reality, he didn’t know if he even wanted to get through this. He felt like he had to grip on to the sadness, for fear of forgetting Sherlock. And he _never_ wanted that to happen. Sherlock deserved to be remembered as what he was: a genius. Whatever his best friends had said on the roof that day, John didn’t believe him. He would never believe that Sherlock was a fraud, and will never believe that Sherlock lied.

*****

The cab rattled with the force of the slamming door. The driver of the taxi had pulled over a few minutes round the corner, and was now leaning against the cab. He pulled off his beanie, his dark curls springing free. John hadn’t recognised him. He wasn’t even sure John looked his way. Of course, that had been the point. And yet some small hope had remained. Some small, selfish hope.

Sherlock pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to quell the tears that were forming. What had he done? He was supposed to be saving John’s life by doing this. Keeping him out of harm's way. But now John was harming himself, and it was all his fault. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to jump, and John was supposed to get over it. Mourn a little, and then continue with his life. Maybe get married, have a few kids. Of course, that's not what he _wanted,_ but it’s what he expected. He certainly didn’t expect this.

Believe it or not, this visit was a treat. Only just cleared by Mycroft and his team, it was a reward. For being a dutiful little assassin, and killing without hesitation. Good boy, well done. It took some convincing though, despite his good behaviour.

“An unnecessary risk,” his brother had said. “Foolish and useless. What would you achieve by going back?”

“I have to see him,” Sherlock had replied, “To know how he's doing.”

“I could show him to you.”

“No,” he’d said. “I have to _see_ him.”

And this is what he came back to. A John who was a fraction of the man he knew. A John in pieces. He would come back. He knew he would. He had to, or John would crumble. Or there would be no one left to come back to.

But first, he had a job to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading lads! If you wanted more Johnlock after that, maybe you could check out my Tumblr, my-dear-holmes? I’m not always this angsty, I promise!
> 
> If you are struggling with self-harm, you are not alone. Please talk to someone, and know it will get better. Keep going, I believe in you <3


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